The champagne had dried sticky on my race suit hours ago, but the victory felt hollow. Lando was the one everyone wanted to see, the fan-favourite no matter the result.

I was the one who won the race, but somehow, I still felt second place.

I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the floor, hands clasped too tightly together. The cheer of the crowd replayed in my head, but all I heard was his name, not mine.

The knock on the door was soft, then your voice followed. “Oscar?”

I swallowed, pretending to sound fine. “It’s open.”

You slipped inside, eyes searching mine instantly. You sat beside me without hesitation, your hand brushing my arm.

“You’re quiet,” you whispered.

I gave a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Do I look like him?”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Him,” I said, bitterness creeping into my tone. “Lando. Do I look like him? Is that what it takes to be noticed? To be… enough?”

The silence stretched, heavy, before you leaned closer. “Oscar,” you said firmly, “I don’t want you to look like anyone else. You’re enough. More than enough.”

I met your eyes then, and for the first time all night, I believed it. Not the headlines. Not the crowd. Just you.